Balançoire
by gemini13me
Summary: "Perfect balance is like a razor's edge; it can be found only in the Self." - Sri Sri Ravi Shankar.
1. Battement développé

**A/N Just testing the waters...**

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_**Chapter 1**_

_"__The ballet is a purely female thing; it is a woman, a garden of beautiful flowers, and man is the gardener.__"_(_George Balanchine)_

_**~B~**_

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The bright red leotard felt a lot like tightly wrapped, suffocating cellophane against my skin; a far cry from the breezy black skirt it had been paired with. Hooking my thumb under one of the thin Lycra straps, I pulled hard, trying to ease the discomfort. The strap slipped and bounced back, lashing against my shoulder and causing me to wince at the sting.

"Shit," I mumbled to myself, stopping in the middle of the hallway to rub at the sore spot.

Two girls chatted animatedly as they passed by me, no doubt heading in the same direction as I was. They looked so happy and carefree, and I immediately envied them. They seemed so confident, while_ I_ felt as if I was on the verge of a panic attack. One mistake; a single misstep, and everything I'd worked for all those years would've been in vain. My lifelong dream was literally a few steps away.

I stood there for a minute or two, staring at nothing, while others hurried past me towards the auditorium.

_Inhale... exhale..._

_Inhale... exhale..._

_Inhale... exhale..._

"Hey, you'd better hurry up, girl," a guy sporting a short afro called as he flew past me. "Yovenko just arrived."

I forgot to breathe altogether as I watched him disappear behind the massive wooden doors. Finally managing to pull myself together, I tightened my grip on the bag I had with me and followed after him.

The auditorium was enormous and very much unlike anything I had seen before. There were about twenty people standing on stage, and before them, the legendary Maksim Yovenko strode the wide perimeter impatiently.

_Boom... instant intimidation._

Maksim Yovenko was a former Ukrainian ballet dancer, world-renowned choreographer, and the artist in residence at the American Ballet Theatre. It was an honor to be in his presence, but also nerve-racking for any young dancer… especially today.

"Come on, Miss, I don't have all day," he urged in his thick, Ukrainian-accented voice.

I scurried my way on stage, my heart beating a frenzied rhythm. In my haste, I tripped over my own feet as I climbed the few inoffensive steps, but managed to regain my balance immediately. The two girls from earlier snickered, and I chose to ignore them, taking my spot at the nearest end of the semicircle formation.

"Good, you all seem to be here," Yovenko observed, glancing down at the clipboard he was holding. When he looked up, there was a hint of smile on his lips. "Precision. Grace. Versatility. Those are the qualities we're looking for. When our dancers take the stage and the performance begins, you are taken away, on a journey into the heart and soul of every part they play. It is this connection and passion that has helped create our reputation as the world's premiere dance company. The expectations are high. Do your best, and try not to disappoint me or yourselves."

A side door opened, and a tall figure entered, causing collective gasps all around.

"Ah, Mr. Masen," Yovenko said, his tone laced with humorous familiarity. "We were waiting for you."

"I'm here now," Mr. Masen's aloof voice replied. He took a seat in the front row, crossing his ankles as he leaned back into the stiff chair.

We all stared in awe at the man in front of us. No one had expected him to show up for the corps de ballet auditions. Studying him briefly, I noticed he looked exactly the same as three years ago when he'd last performed. He had the same auburn hair, the same intense green eyes, and the same lean, muscular body.

"Are we ready to begin?" he inquired, producing a clipboard of his own from a nearby chair.

"We are," Yovenko immediately answered, already descending from the stage. "Jenna Campbell, you're first."

A girl with curly red hair took a step forward, nervousness oozing from her every pore.

"The rest of you, please take a seat in the third row and quietly wait for your turn."

We did as instructed, and I soon found myself facing Edward Masen's back. I was closer to him than I'd ever been. It was surreal.

The music started, and the dancer began her routine. I tried to focus on what she was doing, but my eyes kept drifting to the imposing man just a few feet away. I wanted to see his expression. What was he thinking? Did he like what he was seeing? Was the girl any good?

Barely a minute in, I had my answer. The red-haired Miss Campbell managed to completely mess up her _brisé volé_. Mr. Masen's hand went up in the air instantly, and the music stopped.

"Next," he said, simply; unforgiving.

The girl practically ran off the stage, her wide eyes full of unshed tears.

Next, there was a guy whose _échappé sauté_ was poorly executed. Then, there was a girl who landed on her knees when she tried a _grand jeté_. Mr. Masen's shoulders were getting tenser by the moment, and I observed the little of him I could with morbid fascination. I knew neither of them would cut me slack for any display of ineptitude, no matter how small. And yet, instead of paying attention to the dancers and taking notes, I watched both Yovenko and Masen, searching for answers in their gestures and conspiratorial whispers.

Almost an hour later, they finally called my name. I stood on stage, looking the two men in the eye, and felt the compelling desire to expel last night's dinner. Physically, I was ready; emotionally, not even close.

"Please," Yovenko said, gesturing that I should begin.

Mr. Masen was quiet, his brow furrowed as he watched me. He was unhappy.

Mozart's _Lacrimosa _floated through the speakers, and I took a deep, encouraging breath. Such a sad, inspiring song. I knew it by heart. I knew every _pas_, every single _plié _and _brisé_. I could've done my routine in my sleep, and yet...

I started hesitantly, falling out of rhythm in the first ten seconds and missing my first _pirouette_ entirely. I expected the music to stop then, to hear Mr. Masen shout "Enough!", but to my complete bewilderment, neither happened. Everything after was a blur. I danced like a madwoman, most of the steps improvised. I couldn't even remember my last name, let alone the routine I'd practiced for the past year and a half. When the music did stop, I was sweaty, out of breath, and on the verge of a meltdown. I'd fucked up. Royally.

I couldn't even bring myself to look at Yovenko. My eyes were trained on Mr. Masen, who stared at me, his expression unreadable. Yovenko leaned over to whisper against his ear. Mr. Masen gave a curt nod, his hard eyes fixed on my face. When he finally spoke, his voice was like ice.

"Thank you, Miss Swan. Please take your seat."

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**A/N This story will be solely in Bella's point of view. If you're interested, I'll resume updating after the epilogue to TPB.**

**Thoughts? Do you like the concept? Should I continue writing? Let me know.**

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**Glossary:**

**Brisé** (Broken, breaking): a fast action allegro step in which the legs beat together in the air.

**Brisé volé **(Flying brisé): this brisé differs from the other, as it finishes on one foot after the beat.

**Échappé** (Escaping or slipping movement): an échappé is an opening of both feet from a closed position. It can either be a jump from fifth position to second positon. Or a relevé with straight knees on demi-pointes, or pointe for the ladies. In an échappé sauté, the dancer takes a deep plié followed by a jump in which the legs "escape" into either second (usually when starting from first position) or fourth position (usually when starting from fifth position), landing in demi-plié.

**Grand Jeté **(Large jump): a long horizontal jump, starting from one leg and landing on the other. Known as a split in the air. It is most often done forward and usually involves doing full leg splits in mid-air.

**Pas** (Step): the term pas often refers to a combination of steps which make up a dance (typically, in dance forms such as jazz, hip-hop, tap, etc., this is called a routine). Pas is often used as a generic term when referring to a particular suite of dances, i.e. Pas de deux, Grand Pas d'action, etc., and may also refer to a variation.

**Plié** (Bend, from the verb plier, to bend): a smooth and continuous bending of the knees. A bending of the knees outward by a ballet dancer with the back held back.

**Pirouette** (Turn): a turn on one leg, often starting with one or both legs in plié and rising onto relevé (usually for men) or pointe (usually for women).


	2. Chassé

**A/N Enjoy!**

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**_Chapter 2_**

_"Ballet is a passion, an addiction, a sometime obsession, a lifestyle, a discipline, an art. It is not a hobby." (Northern Ballet)_

**_~ B~_**

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I entered the dance studio hesitantly, my mind and body still reeling from last week's unexpected success. Getting a place in the corps after completely messing up my routine was bittersweet. I knew I deserved being selected; I was good enough. I had prepared for that short five minute audition for the past two years of my life; even given up going to college. The hard work, the sleepless nights, the endless dieting had eventually paid off, getting me what I wanted, but the feeling just wasn't right. That critical moment when I'd fallen out of rhythm played on a loop in my mind over and over again. Six whole days of obsessing over it, and I still couldn't get it. How in hell did I manage to forget the steps I'd rehearsed for more than five hundred days in a row, multiple times a day?

I remembered feeling so ashamed and utterly humiliated. Standing in front of Masen and Yovenko, two giants in the world of ballet, and getting the urge to cry your eyes out didn't exactly fit the bill for the most memorable experience in one's career. I'd disappointed myself immensely, and that was something I had yet to come to terms with.

I was a good dancer. I had passion, and I loved ballet more than anything. My newest goal was to show them they hadn't been wrong in giving me a chance to dance for their company. I was determined. Once I'd set my mind on accomplishing something, there was no turning back. Starting today, I was going to show them the true value of Isabella Swan. I was going to prove not only to them but also myself that I was worthy of being here.

My eyes swept over the spacious room, taking in the few corps dancers doing their warm-ups. Lowering my bag to the floor, I sat down on a nearby bench and pulled out my soft ballet slippers.

"Hey," a masculine voice floated above me.

I looked up, only to see the guy with the short afro from last Tuesday. "Hi."

He gave me a blinding smile. "I didn't get the chance to introduce myself. I'm Laurent."

"Isabella." My hand met his already extended one. "Friends call me Bella."

He chuckled, crossing his arms over his chest. "I'll call you Bella in hopes that one day we might become friends."

I couldn't help the smile stretching across my lips. "Okay."

I got up, removing my wrap cardigan and tossing it on top of my bag. Laurent followed me to the barre.

"So, congrats," he said. "Being here is a big deal, huh? Five out of twenty-six."

"Yeah, you too," I replied, starting to stretch.

"Thanks." He leaned against the barre, watching me. Two girls I'd seen before stood in a far away corner, laughing about something. They kept looking our way, and I got the distinct feeling they were talking about us. "Don't mind them. Both of them can get pretty nasty," Laurent explained their behavior with a genuine smile. He seemed like such a good guy, and I instantly felt drawn to his friendly, easy-going personality.

"You know them?" I asked curiously.

"Lauren and Jessica? Yeah, we went to JKO together. They're pretty well-known around these parts."

"So what's their deal?" I met both pairs of eyes, and neither bothered to pretend they weren't blatantly staring. "Why _are_ they so nasty?"

"Probably because they think they're better than everyone else."

I turned my gaze to Laurent, questioningly. "Are they?"

He shrugged. "They're pretty decent. You're better."

"Yeah, I don't know about that." I chuckled bitterly; last week's performance still vivid in my mind.

"Are you kidding me? You rocked the stage last week."

At that, I gave him an incredulous look. "I messed up my routine."

"Yeah, everyone saw that," he replied teasingly. "But you came up with one heck of an improvisation. I dare say you even managed to impress Masen."

Before I could respond, the door opened and Yovenko stepped in. "Good morning," he greeted, stirring into a paper cup of what looked like steaming coffee. He was wearing all black, his naturally dark hair and eyes seeming to accentuate the air of intimidation his mere presence in a room was projecting.

"Good morning," I mumbled, my voice barely heard over other much more enthusiastic replies.

Yovenko sketched a brief smile that hardly touched his lips. "I want to start by congratulating our new corps de ballet. Welcome to ABT." He took a sip of his drink, before continuing. "Also, next week we start the auditions for both _Swan Lake_ and _Giselle_. The auditions will be held by Mr. Masen, his assistant Jasper Whitlock, our head of costume design Alice Brandon, and myself."

The creak of the door announced a new arrival, and everyone turned to look that way.

"Ah, Miss Hale," Yovenko said, his thick voice laced with something akin to pure delight. "Late as usual."

The girl, a blonde in her mid-twenties, gave him a coy smile. "I apologize."

Small, gracious head, long neck, short torso, and strong, lean legs; Miss Hale had it all. She had the perfect ballerina body, and I couldn't help the streak of envy coursing through me at the sight of her. I was willing to bet my modest salary she was a principal.

"For those of you who don't know, this lovely lady is our company's newest star, Rosalie Hale," Yovenko informed us, confirming my suspicions.

"Well, not that new, Maks." Rosalie chuckled, discarding her bag to the floor with a loud thud.

_Maks?_

My first thought was that she must've been _really_ good to be allowed to call him that.

"Indeed." Yovenko smiled at her, and I could tell this time around his smile was genuine. "She's been with us for about five years now. Last year she was _Giselle_ and two years ago she was _Juliet_; both of which were extraordinary performances."

Rosalie gave him a look that could've melted a pot of gold. She clasped her hands in front of her enthusiastically. "When do auditions start?" she inquired in a mellifluous voice.

"Next Thursday," he replied, directing his gaze to his wristwatch. "Since Miss Hale arrived a few minutes late, I'm going to give you another ten minutes to warm up."

Next to me Laurent snickered. "Figures."

"What?" I mouthed, watching him with furrowed brows.

He waved me off as if it was nothing, before putting some distance between us and starting another round of stretching exercises. Soft music began floating through the speakers.

Sometime later, when the class was in full swing, Yovenko approached me, his dark gaze assessing my every move.

"Isabella, is it?" he murmured against my ear, placing a firm hand on my raised leg. "Higher."

I sucked in a deep breath, both because of his dangerous proximity and the sharp pain that shot through my thigh and the joints in the back of my knee. He was pushing me already. I'd known he was going to since I'd first decided to audition for the company. Maksim Yovenko was famous for his unorthodox teaching skills. That was why he was so good at his job.

"I said higher, Isabella," he practically snarled, causing an ice-cold shiver to run down my spine. He wasn't going to take it easy on me; that I had already realized.

Gritting my teeth, I forced my leg into submission, keeping it in the position he wanted for as long as he wanted. It hurt. _Shit._ After so many years of constant training, I still got sore muscles and blisters and whatnot.

When I thought my leg was finally going to go numb, Yovenko pulled back and watched me with satisfaction. "Good, that's good. I like your endurance. I can definitely work with that."

Despite the pain, I smiled, allowing myself to bask in the positive feedback. He didn't smile in return. Turning to his right abruptly, his eyes pierced through the frightened stance of a nearby girl.

"Ms. Williams, is that supposed to be _attitude devant_?" he snapped, marching his way over to her. "Your toes should not be pointing upwards. The knee should be in line with the ankle. What do you think this is; ballet 101?"

Lowering my leg to the floor, I gave it a moment of rest. I watched as Yovenko pulled himself from the girl he'd just managed to unnerve, his measured pace carrying him towards Rosalie who was executing a flawless _arabesque_.

"Perfect, Rosalie," he praised encouragingly. "Perfect."

Rosalie smirked arrogantly, making sure to give the Williams girl a pointed look. A moment later, the door swung open, revealing Mr. Masen's tall form. Every single body in the room stopped moving; all eyes fixed on him.

I inhaled sharply, my already frantic pulse accelerating as he advanced into the dance studio. He looked taller than ever, the casual clothes he had on enhancing the hard lines of his spectacular body.

Yovenko, who was now standing near the laptop, reached over and pressed a key, muting the song. "Mr. Masen. Is everything alright?"

Mr. Masen nodded curtly, walking over to the benches and taking a seat. "Yes, everything's fine." He leaned forward with his elbows resting on the tops of his thighs, gesturing with his hand. "Please continue."

_What?_

All over the room, several confused looks were being exchanged. I glanced at Laurent, and he shrugged, unknowing, giving me an encouraging wink.

The music began playing again, Yovenko's stern look urging us to get back to what we'd been doing. He went on; instructing us to try different combinations, but my concentration was blown to pieces. I kept glancing in Masen's direction, and to my complete horror, every time I did, I found him watching me like a hawk.

Blood rushed to my cheeks, and I had to actually stop myself from squirming under the crushing weight of his scrutinizing eyes. I had no idea what exactly he was searching for that he apparently thought he could find in me, but his suffocating presence made me want to open a window and jump. Everything about him was just so... _intense_. Each gesture, each cough, each crease forming along the smooth stretch of porcelain skin had me almost hyperventilating. He wanted something from me, and I just couldn't figure out what I could ever have that he might want. There was no other explanation for his sudden, acute attention.

Curiously enough, he remained quiet for the entire hour spent in the dance studio, not even addressing Yovenko. He simply left, with his hands shoved in his pockets and a stern scowl on his face, after our practice was over.

Much later, as I exited the locker rooms, both physically and emotionally exhausted, I was still feeling the effects of his relentless scrutiny.

_**~ B ~**_

"Look at this," my mother spat, as she slapped a copy of her gossip magazine onto the kitchen island, right in front of me. She managed to look both furious and disgusted. "Your father made the front page yet again."

I picked it up with little interest, noticing the fresh face clinging to my father's arm. "She's new."

"Aren't they all?" Mom puffed out an exasperated breath. "None of them last more than a few weeks."

I shrugged, tossing the magazine back down. I didn't really care. "You seem awfully tense today."

She sighed, taking a sip from her glass of wine. "Don't mind me; I'm having one of those days. How was your first dance class at ABT?"

"It was okay," I answered vaguely, pulling out a grape from the fruit bowl and popping it into my mouth.

"Were people nice?"

"Yeah." _Most of them._

She smiled, looking satisfied with my half-assed answer. "I'm glad. Dinner's in the oven; it should be ready by six."

"Okay." I swung my bag over my shoulder, unenthusiastically. The kitchen smelled of roast, and I wasn't a big fan of copious dinners. All it did was weight me down. "I'm going to take a shower."

Mom nodded, returning her attention to her magazine.

I turned around and dragged my tired body up the stairs. As soon as I hit the second floor, my little brother's obnoxious yell reached my ears. "Yo, Bells!"

"What?" I muttered, walking in the direction of his bedroom. Seth stood facing away from me, as he adjusted his plaid bowtie in the mirror. He looked like he was about to head out. Seriously, the kid was just so restless. He couldn't sit still for more than five minutes if his life depended on it.

"How do I look?" He whirled around, showing off his perfectly white teeth and unique style of clothing.

"You look fine." I chuckled as I leaned against the door frame, my eyes running over the entire 5'8" of him. For a sixteen-year-old, he was remarkably tall. "Why? Where are you off to?"

He wagged his eyebrows at me suggestively, leaning down to pick up his jacket from the bed. "I have a hot date."

I had to actually refrain from rolling my eyes at him. Talk about family resemblance. "Who's the lucky lady?"

"Just some girl from school."

"Have fun," I said, and he planted a noisy kiss on my cheek as he squeezed past me.

"Thanks. I will." He started walking down the stairs, then suddenly stopped and turned to me. "Oh, I left something on your bed."

"What is it?" I smiled, curious.

He winked. "You'll see."

Before I could ask any more questions, he was flying down the staircase, leaving me alone and more than a little intrigued. As I reached my room, I tossed my bag on the floor, going straight for the bed. Plopping down on it, I grabbed the small jewelry box and untied the pink ribbon with deft fingers. Inside, I found a pair of gorgeous letter B stud earrings.

Chuckling to myself, I grabbed my phone, typing a quick text message. _**Thanks. You didn't have to.**_

His reply came seconds later. _**Found them at the mall today, thought you might like them.**_

_**I do. They're lovely. Be nice to your date.**_

_**Got it.**_

I sighed reading his last reply. I seriously hoped he wasn't going to inherit our father's whorish ways. He was too good for that.

Placing my head on top of my folded arms, I let my eyes drift close. While my body was aching and needed the rest, my mind began wandering.

Vibrant images of Edward Masen as Prince Désiré in _The Sleeping Beauty_ danced against my eyelids, his verve and passion reaching across time and capturing my entire being. I could remember every step, every expression, every single gesture as if it'd happened yesterday. He used to be a magnificent dancer, one of the best there ever was, and one day, hopefully not too far into the future, I was going to be his counterpart.

It was my dream. It was what I lived for.

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**A/N Thank you for reading!**

**~Andreea~**

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**Glossary:**

**Attitude**: a position in which the dancer stands on one leg (known as the supporting leg) while the other leg (working leg) is lifted and well turned out with the knee bent at approximately 90-degree angle. The lifted or working leg can be behind (_derrière_), in front (_devant_), or on the side (_à la seconde_) of the body. In the Balanchine and Russian styles, the foot must be in line with the knee or above it, creating an angle that is 90-degrees or less. The _attitude_ position can be performed with the supporting leg and foot either _en pointe_, _demi pointe_ or on a flat foot.

**Arabesque**: the position of the body supported on one leg, with the other leg extended behind the body with the knee straight. The standing leg may be either bent, in plie, or straight. Arabesque is used in both allegro and adagio choreography. The working leg is placed in 4th open, a terre (on the ground) or en l'air (raised). Armline defines whether this is 1st, 2nd or 3rd Arabesque.

The reference **JKO** refers to: The Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis School. It's the associate school of American Ballet Theatre located within the Broadway district in New York City, New York.


	3. Ouvert

**A/N I decided to add glossary at the end of each chapter. See you at the bottom!**

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_**Chapter 3**_

_"Someone need not be perfect to be a great dancer – feeling a soul is more important than what the body can do." (Marcia Haydée)_

_**~ B ~**_

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"Everyone please take your seats," Yovenko urged impatiently, his dark eyes sweeping over the crowded auditorium. "Auditions are about to begin."

My own eyes wandered in search of the only person I was interested in seeing.

Mr. Masen stood with his arms crossed over his broad chest, speaking with a man in his late twenties. The man was tall, with curly blond hair, and by his relaxed stance, I deduced he was Jasper Whitlock, Mr. Masen's assistant. Just a few feet away, a petite brunette dressed in a very fashionable outfit and with her make up perfectly done, was having a conversation on her phone. There was no doubt in my mind that she was Alice Brandon, the head of costume design.

I watched the muted conversation between Mr. Masen and his assistant with piqued interest. It wasn't that I was obsessed with Edward Masen; far from it. The appropriate term would be _fascinated_. I was fascinated with his brilliance as a dancer and his impressive career. Matter of fact, I had seen so many of his performances, his mastery and passion were bound to be forever etched in my memory. He was the standard; the ultimate level of skillfulness to which young dancers nowadays measured themselves.

Of course, no one could deny his good looks either. He possessed a great body and one of those faces even a male model would die for, or at least pay good money to have. Overall, one could say he was beautiful, but not in an effeminate way. His facial features were very symmetric and smooth with strong masculine lines, but his green eyes had a peculiar softness to them that contrasted with the rest of him. Only when he was particularly focused on something, the melting softness of his glance seemed to take on a steely façade.

Suddenly, his head turned, and the brief look he threw the auditorium met my persistent stare. His eyes lingered on my face, causing me to blush furiously and look away. I'd been caught ogling him. How mortifying.

Laurent took hold of my wrist, pulling me towards a row of empty seats. "Here," he said, nodding at the middle seats he'd chosen.

I smiled, grateful for the momentary distraction. Sitting down, I was relieved to find myself hidden from Mr. Masen's inquisitive eyes.

"Rosalie looks tense." Laurent chuckled, nodding in her general direction. "Rumor has it, she wants Giselle again."

"Of course she does," I replied sarcastically, observing the way she kept stealing nervous glances at her watch.

Laurent casually placed his arm on the back of my chair. "So, do you want to go for a drink afterwards?" he asked, swiftly changing the subject. "You know, celebrate today's auditions?"

I looked at him in surprise. "How do you know they're going to be a success?"

He shrugged with an air of nonchalance. "We're already in the corps. I think that's good enough reason to celebrate."

"You're right," I agreed.

"So, that's a yes?"

I nodded. "Sure, why not? I feel like I haven't gone out in ages."

"Yeah, you don't really seem like the outgoing type," he said, bumping my shoulder playfully.

I sighed, twisting the end of my ponytail between my fingers. "I'm not. I'd rather be in the classroom, practicing."

His gaze turned more serious. "You're a hard worker. I like that."

"Going out for drinks sounds like fun," someone spoke behind us. We both turned around to see a curly redhead staring back at us with a mischievous smile on her lips.

"Didn't your mother teach you it's not nice to eavesdrop?" Laurent replied, mildly annoyed with the interruption.

"I'm just trying to make new friends." The girl's smile was infectious. "I'm Victoria."

"It's nice to meet you." I shook her extended hand. "I'm Bella, and this grumpy cat here is Laurent."

Laurent rolled his eyes petulantly. "You want to come along?" he asked, his enthusiasm significantly diminished.

"Sure." Victoria didn't need to do much thinking. She seemed quite eager. "Thanks for asking."

As the three of us chatted, oblivious to what was happening on stage; I suddenly heard my name being called.

"Miss Isabella Swan," Yovenko repeated, his deep voice bouncing off the walls and echoing through the vast room.

My head snapped up, and I became acutely aware of the fact that the auditorium had gone completely silent. Everyone was seated, including the judges' table.

"Shit," I whispered in panic. "Already? I thought they were calling us on stage in alphabetical order."

"Seems like they're not," Laurent commented; his brow furrowed. "Go, go. Don't make them wait."

As I rushed my way on stage, I was horrified to find at least five dozen pairs of eyes fixed on me. A great majority of the company's dancers were here today. Reaching that simple conclusion was enough to make my head spin and my heart rate accelerate.

"Miss Swan, we would like you to dance for the part of Odette," Yovenko informed me calmly, his nose buried in the voluminous clipboard in front of him.

"I'm sorry?" I breathed incredulously, the volume in my already meek voice shrinking with each uttered syllable.

Yovenko looked up, one of his eyebrows arching challengingly. He was having none of my indecisiveness.

Out of sheer desperation, I glanced at Mr. Masen, searching for some kind of reassurance I wasn't being pranked that I was actually being asked to audition for a principal part in _Swan Lake_. He stared back at me, his expression as stoical as ever. There was no trace of empathy in his glacial eyes; no softness left. In moments like these, I wished he would let down his guard and stop being so damn intimidating. I wanted to see a little bit of encouragement. There was none.

And then he spoke. For the first time since the initial audition, he was addressing me directly.

"Is that going to be a problem for you?" His voice was like mercury; smooth and fluid, but with a potentially fatal edge to it.

"I-I'm not prepared for it," I stuttered, a bead of sweat trailing down my neck. I wished the floor would open under my feet and swallow me whole. "I thought it was already set that I was in the corps and that I was auditioning for either _Swan Lake_ or _Giselle."_

His jaw set, and I would even say he looked quite irritated with my answer. "Yes, well, change of plans. Do you think you can at least give it a try?"

Why was he doing this to me? What on earth had I done to deserve such humiliation? There was no way I could pull this off without the proper amount of rehearsal. I knew the role just as well as the next young woman aspiring to become a principal, but it wasn't enough. What they were asking of me was pure madness.

Still, I couldn't say no. Not to him; not to them. I was being given yet another opportunity to prove myself, even if I couldn't understand the reasoning behind it for the life of me.

It _had_ to be Mr. Masen's doing. He'd been showing overwhelming interest in me since my first day in the company. It was flattering and at the same time scary as fuck.

"Yeah... I mean, yes, thank you," I finally mumbled, praying to God I wasn't going to completely ruin my career over this man's whims. From the legions of dancers, I respected him the most, but his sense of judgment was starting to frighten me, for it seemed nonexistent.

Mr. Masen snapped his fingers, and almost instantly the music for _Swan Lake, Act II_ started. The first thing that came to mind was _Odette's Dance._

Now, I had always had an affinity for Odette, and I particularly enjoyed dancing her slow _adagio_ movement, but the whole situation was nerve-wracking. I wasn't sure I was going to be able to give the performance the spark it needed to make it come to life. For most ballerinas, the dual role of Odette versus Odile represented a career pinnacle, and I really had no desire to screw it up. However, the ballet demanded virtuoso technique from its female lead and also unusually wide dynamic range and acting ability, and the current circumstances made me question my capacity to deliver.

I started dancing, forcing myself not to focus so much on my unprepared state of mind, but rather on the movements I excelled at. I did the _rond de jambe en l'air _at the beginning of the piece, using my ability to do four _ronds de jambes_ per leg, each time, fully extended on the beat. I concentrated on making beautiful lines and arches with my body, at the same time trying my best to project as much warmth and sweetness as I could onto the critical eyes aimed at me. With each passing second,I became more and more confident. I could do this. I_ was _doing it.

Then, all of a sudden, the music changed, and I was Odile, the infamous Black Swan. For the briefest moment, I froze, not having expected the abrupt change in music. To go from innocent Odette to evil, seductive Odile in mere seconds was no easy feat, and yet the duality of the role was what made it so fulfilling to perform. Odette and Odile couldn't be separated, and if I wanted the role, I had to demonstrate I could do both justice.

Each dancer had their own way of portraying these characters, and that was what made the play so unique and the role so sought after. To me Odette was beautiful, delicate, gracious and even a bit vulnerable, while Odile was bold, mysterious, dark, and capable of dazzling Prince Siegfried.

The dance was so intense, it gave me the strange impression it went on forever, when in fact it lasted no more than a few minutes. When the music eventually stopped, halting me with it, I was breathing so heavily I felt like I was on the verge of collapsing. Despite my fears, I had given it my all.

My eyes immediately searched for Mr. Masen. As the artistic director of the company, he had all the power. It was pretty much up to him if I would be receiving the role or not. After all, he'd put me up for it in the first place.

To my utter bewilderment, what I saw on his face was even better than getting the actual role: genuine appreciation. He looked as though he had actually _enjoyed _my impersonation of the Swans, his expressionless face now sporting a cocky smirk.

I was shocked. What did that even mean?

"Thank you, Miss Swan," he said smoothly, making sure to throw Yovenko a pointed look.

"Thank _you,"_ I replied hoarsely, slowly climbing down the stage. I was spent, both physically and emotionally.

As I passed the judges' table, Alice Brandon, who was sitting closest to the aisle, looked at me, her brown eyes assessing me from head to toe in one swift motion. The corner of her mouth lifted into a half-smile, and I couldn't help but mirror her gesture. Since I was so tired, I was sure my attempt at smiling looked more like a grimace, though. My feet hurt so much I wanted to punch something.

"What just happened?" Laurent demanded when I took my place beside him.

I shook my head, still reeling from my performance. "I have no idea."

"Man, Masen must be quite taken with you."

"Why do you say that?" I asked, pretending not to have noticed the obvious.

"He's the only one who can make sudden and major changes like that," he explained as if it were the most logical thing on earth. "You just managed to piss off the entire lot of principals. I bet everyone thinks you're already fucking him."

I gasped, horrified. "Why would they think that? I haven't done anything for Christ's sake!"

"Don't be naïve," Victoria piped in. "People here are like vultures ready to rip you apart at the first _hint_ of success. Some of us have been in the company for years and still haven't gotten promoted. And now here you come, practically materializing out of nowhere and ready to steal the limelight. People will hate you for it."

I turned around in my seat and frowned at her, only to realize she wasn't even looking at me. Following her gaze, I was met with Rosalie Hale's nasty glare. She looked as if she was about to commit murder. The bad part? I was the potential victim.

"How long have you been in the corps?" I addressed Victoria, deciding to ignore Rosalie and everyone else who seemed to have a problem with the fact that I had nailed my dance.

She smiled; her expression free from any maliciousness. "Four years."

I nodded in acknowledgement, choosing not to question her about her chances of getting promoted. "So what's Masen like?"

I _needed_ to know what his deal was. What made him tick? What did he look for in a dancer? Was he as demanding and psychotic as I'd heard? I had so many questions. For now, I deemed it safer to stick to a vague one.

Victoria leaned forward, conspiratorially. "He's really good at what he does; pretty much a genius. He appreciates talented, hard-working dancers, but can transform into quite the tyrant when someone messes up. And he's hot; really, really hot."

"Yes, I've noticed that attribute." I chuckled, amused by the way her eyebrows waggled suggestively as she uttered the last sentence. "I was more interested in what kind of person he is."

"You mean on a personal level?" She seemed to be pondering for a brief moment before shrugging. "You know what, I have no idea; he's pretty elusive. But did I mention he's hot?"

_**~ B ~**_

"Wow, this is _so_ good," Victoria moaned around her multicolored straw, closing her eyes in pure bliss. The three of us occupied a small table in the quiet café across from the company's building. It was after four in the afternoon, but the place was pretty much deserted.

"You might want to slow down on the calories," I suggested, eying the huge glass suspiciously. "That's your second milkshake."

Her brows furrowed. "So?"

At that I gave her an incredulous look. "They make you gain weight like crazy."

She dropped her straw, the milkshake suddenly not so appealing. "Oh."

"Yeah, oh," I said pointedly.

Pushing the glass to the side, she tucked a strand of curly hair behind her ear. "Are you nervous for tomorrow's results?"

I sighed heavily, leaning back into my seat. "I am, but honestly... what are my chances? I wasn't even prepared."

Laurent puffed out a deriding snort. "Are you serious right now? Trust me, your chances are as high as they can get."

Before I could reply, the door to the café opened, and the imposing figure of Mr. Masen casually strolled in. He had his black leather jacket on, which, more than likely, meant he was leaving for the day. The black button down shirt underneath caught my attention. It had the first two buttons undone, and I stared unabashedly at the way it hugged his chest. When I looked up, I realized I'd been caught ogling him for the second time that day.

His eyes pierced through mine, and I was pleased to once again find softness where there had been so much callousness. However, this time his gaze didn't linger for more than a split second. Turning his head, he walked straight to the counter where I could hear him ordering coffee.

"He comes here pretty often," Victoria's voice pulled me out of the trance I seemed to fall into whenever he was around.

"Does he?" I murmured, still watching him. What was it about him that felt so magnetic to me?

She chuckled. "I guess he likes the coffee."

"Does he ever socialize with the dancers?" I wondered. There was a significant part of me that wished for her answer to be positive.

"You're joking, right?"

When I finally managed to tear my eyes away, I saw both Victoria and Laurent were giving me strange looks.

"Could you be any more obvious?" Laurent shook his head disapprovingly.

I blushed furiously. "I just... I really admire him as a dancer. He used to be so good."

Neither looked convinced by my feeble attempt at rationalizing my sharp interest in him.

From my peripheral, I saw Mr. Masen step outside with his cup of coffee in hand. While Laurent pulled out his phone, and Victoria started rummaging through her bag, I took the opportunity to gaze out the window. Mr. Masen reached into his jacket's inner pocket, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. He brought one to his lips, lighting it up. _Huh_. I never would have pegged him as a smoker. Taking a deep drag, he shoved the pack back into his pocket. Looking both ways, he quickly crossed the street, and I watched as he pulled out a pair of car keys before climbing into a modern-looking bronze Volvo.

And then he was gone.

_**~ B ~**_

The next day, as I dragged my weary body up the stairs towards the first class of the day, I was tackled by a hyped-up Victoria.

"You lucky bitch," she yelled, crushing me into a bear hug with so much force I stumbled back a few steps. "You got the part!"

The impact of the news was so powerful and unexpected, my knees buckled. "What?" I whispered in disbelief.

She pulled back to look at me, her eyes wide and full of excitement. "You got Odette. I can't believe it! Barely a week in and—"

She was still speaking, but suddenly I couldn't hear her anymore. I'd gotten the part. I'd gotten the freaking part! It was incredible.

_Now what?_

* * *

**Glossary:**

**Rond de jambe en l'air** (circular movement of the leg in the air): is done at the bar and in center practice and may be single, or double, en _dehors_ or en _dedans_. The toe of the working foot describes an oval, the extreme ends of which are the second position en _l'air_ and the supporting leg. The thigh must be kept motionless and the hips well turned out, the whole movement being made by the leg below the knee.

**Adagio:** in a slow tempo, usually considered to be slower than _andante_ but faster than _larghetto_.

**Ballet ranks:**

Artistic director- He/she is the head of a ballet company and is usually a retired dancer. Often he/she choreographs some of the company's productions himself/herself. In a large company he/she will have one or more assistants.

Day to day coaching of the dancers is the responsibility of one or more ballet masters and ballet mistresses. There is often a resident choreographer.

All but the smallest companies divide their dancers into at least three grades. The most common names for the two higher grades in English are principal and soloist, and the junior dancers form the corps de ballet. A principal dancer is generally one of the best dancers in a ballet company. A soloist is a dancer in a ballet company above the corps de ballet but below principal dancer. Some companies (especially in North America) have trainees or apprentices, who rank below the corps de ballet, and may be unpaid.


	4. Allongé

**A/N Mid Night-Cougar is the best beta in the world and I love her so!  
**

**Ages: Edward 31, Bella 19**

* * *

_**Chapter 4**_

_"Many other women kicked higher, balanced longer, or turned faster. These are poor substitutes for passion." (Agnes de Mille)_

_**~ B ~**_

* * *

It was late in the evening when I was finished with my last rehearsal of the day. Throwing my bag over my shoulder, I exited the locker room and headed for the elevators. I was beat. My feet were killing me, and I felt as if I couldn't get home soon enough. I needed a hot bath and some Advil; not to mention a good night's sleep.

As I stood, waiting for the lift to arrive, I became aware of my phone vibrating inside my bag. Pulling it out, I saw the display flash with an unfamiliar number.

"Hello?" I answered hesitantly. I hated picking up the phone when I had no idea whose voice I was going to hear on the other end.

"Hey, you," a perky, feminine voice greeted back.

"Who's this?" I asked, my brows furrowing in confusion.

"What do you mean 'who's this'? It's Victoria. I thought you saved my number."

I wanted to slap myself. "Oh, Victoria, I'm so sorry," I apologized sincerely. "I completely forgot to save it in my phone."

She laughed. "It's alright."

"So, what's up?" The elevator arrived, and I stepped inside, pushing the button for the first floor.

"I need a favor," she said quickly, skipping to the subject. "Are you still at the studio?"

"Uh, yeah, I was just leaving. What can I do for you?"

"I forgot my dance study binder in one of the teaching classrooms," she explained in a rush, and I could hear the upset in her voice. "It will kill me if I lose that, Bella; it's got all my notes, performance evaluations, position instructions... everything from when I first started here."

"Okay, okay." I chuckled. "I'll go look for it. Which room was it?"

"The huge one on the first floor," she breathed, relieved. "Thank you so much. I don't know how I forgot it; God, it must be the pressure."

"No problem. I'll call you when I find it."

I ended the call just as the doors opened on the first floor. Pushing my heavy bag higher up my shoulder, I headed towards the west wing where the classroom was situated. I passed some fellow colleagues, and some of them nodded in acknowledgement while others completely ignored me. I wasn't very popular in the company these days.

Ahead of me, the door to Mr. Masen's office was cracked open, a thin streak of light squeezing its way into the darkened hallway. I slowed my pace, trying to sneak past it undetected. And then I heard it.

_"What were you even thinking, Edward?"_ Yovenko hissed, and the sheer anger in his voice made me halt my steps abruptly_. "The girl has no experience on stage. For fuck's sake, we're touring Europe in a few months!"_

I stood there frozen, realizing they were talking about me. My heartbeat started picking up pace instantly.

_"I am well aware of that, Maks,"_ Mr. Masen spat in return. _"I already vouched for her. What more do you want?"_

_"I want you to be damn certain of her ability to deliver a decent performance as a ballerina!"_ Yovenko yelled, his thick accent more pronounced than ever.

Startled, I brought my hand to my mouth to stifle an involuntary gasp. It sounded like he was livid. Clearly, he must've been insanely furious to be speaking to his boss that way. I mean, he raised his voice and even used Mr. Masen's given name.

The loud creak of a chair announced a shift of position. _"Do you think I would've given her this opportunity if I thought she was going to be 'decent'?" _Mr. Masen gritted; his voice now closer to the door. _"I want her to be fucking stellar, not decent."_

Yovenko snorted incredulously._ "Is she going to be stellar?"_

_"I'll personally make sure of it."_ There was such confident finality to his statement; it sent a chill down my spine.

Forgetting all about Victoria's study binder, I whirled around, starting to run in the direction I'd come from; she'd have to come back and get it herself. I needed to get out of the building; to put as much distance as I could between myself and that arresting man. Only when I was outside and heading for the subway, did I slow down my pace, although my heart was still pounding.

Mr. Masen's faith in me was definitely flattering but also presumptuous. I wanted the part of Odette, and I knew I deserved it. However, the pressure he inadvertently put on me was proving a bit too much. It wasn't enough that the Swans' dance was so emotionally demanding; now I had to deal with negative feedback too?

I couldn't do it. I just couldn't handle the pressure of the role and the hatred directed at me when not even the choreographer I was supposed to work with trusted in me. The whole situation was so fucked up.

I'd auditioned for the company with the sole intention of starting low, like with the corps, and working my way up through the ranks. I'd wanted to prove myself; to show everyone what I was capable of. And what did I get? I got everything handed to me on a silver platter. Of course the majority of the dancers hated me. Here I was, an unknown face, arriving from God-knows-where to steal an opportunity many dancers a lot more experienced than me had waited to have for years.

No one knew me. No one knew nor cared of the sacrifices I'd had to make in order to be here. None of them could be bothered with the fact I'd had to endure intensive treatment for anorexia, or that over the years I'd had more injuries and sprained ligaments than I could count. Every single one of those who hated me had their own similar problems. Of course they didn't care.

What they _did_ care about was my instant success. That was what really mattered. After all, success was the golden apple of discord. Everyone yearned for it. In their eyes, I'd stolen a prize most of the dancers earned through a lot of sweat and hard work. _I_ hadn't done anything to get it._ I_ wasn't worthy of it.

Now, animosity from my colleagues, I could eventually deal with. I would find a way. But having a man I admired and looked up to say I wasn't good enough was mentally and emotionally debilitating. How was I supposed to deal with the pressure when Maksim Yovenko himself was against me?

It was just too much to handle. I needed to get home and think. Did I really want to do this to myself?

_**~ B ~**_

A couple of days later, I was feeling somewhat better, mostly thanks to Victoria and Laurent who continued being supportive. Yovenko retained his usual, despotic personality, and I tried very hard not to take it personal every time he yelled at me or started muttering curses in Ukrainian. I was well aware of what was expected of me. Giving me a principal role was a huge risk, and there was no room for error whatsoever. _Our _careers were at stake.

As for Mr. Masen, he kept a close eye on me, but at the same time kept his distance. He would come to rehearsals only to observe, never to interfere. But if the way he restlessly circled the room whenever he was there was any indication, things were about to change pretty soon.

As I taped my schedule for the next month to the wall, my phone started ringing. I glanced at the clock, seeing it was almost 9:30 p.m., and briefly wondered who could be calling me so late in the evening.

I was pleased to see it was Victoria again. "Hello?" I answered, plopping onto the bed and un-pausing the movie I'd been watching.

"Hey, stranger danger," she said playfully. "I haven't seen you all day today. Where have you been hiding?"

"I was alone with Yovenko, in his cave, the entire day." I sighed, placing an arm under my head for support. "I got in at nine in the morning and barely escaped from his clutches until about two hours ago. A minute more would have been a minute too much."

"Ouch," she replied sympathetically. "What are you up to now?"

I stifled a yawn. "Nothing much. I was watching a movie and resting my feet. You?"

"I was wondering if you wanted to go back to the studio and practice some more, but since you barely–"

"Now?" I cut her off, frowning. "Why?"

She sighed heavily. "Well, as you know, I recently got back from a three-month break due to injury and my _pointe_ work is a bit rusty. I could use some help. I mean, if you're up for it. I don't want to wear you out; you must be exhausted as it is."

"Yeah, no, I'm up for it," I replied quickly, glad that there was something I could do to repay her kindness and perpetual support. Plus, there was never _enough_ practicing. "But, who's going to let us in at this hour?"

"Are you kidding?" She laughed. "The security guy is there all night, and he's super nice. Besides, I bet there are still people rehearsing; it's not that late."

"Should I pick you up?" I offered.

"Man, you must have the patience of a saint to endure driving through New York traffic even at this hour."

I chuckled, starting to get up. "I was going to take a cab, silly."

"Oh." She chuckled back. "Then pick me up at 55 East 52nd Street."

"I'll be there in about… twenty minutes."

_**~ B ~**_

By the time we made it to the studio, the building was almost deserted. Jake, the security guard, smiled at our approaching figures.

"Evening, ladies." He gave us a wolfish smile, tucking both hands into his pants pockets.

"Hi, Jake." Victoria smiled back. "Are you having a nice evening?"

"Now I am," he replied flirtatiously. He was young, maybe in his mid-twenties; had a dark complexion and a very muscular body.

"I came bearing gifts." She pulled out a big bar of chocolate and a can of soda, placing them on his desk.

He nodded, eyeing the treats appreciatively. "Thanks."

"No problem," Victoria said, grabbing my hand and pulling me towards the elevators. "We're going to be a while."

"Take your time," he called, already popping open the can.

"Did you just bribe the security guard?" I whispered incredulously.

Victoria laughed. "Yeah, and?" She shrugged. "He loves those treats."

I shook my head at her. "You're really something, you know that?"

As we advanced into the partially darkened hallway, we came to realize none of the classrooms were still open.

"Shit," Victoria cursed as she rattled one of the doorknobs furiously.

"It's locked," I stated, matter-of-factly, crossing my arms over my chest.

She gave me a dirty look. "No shit, Sherlock."

I shrugged, my mind already calculating how fast I could get back home and paint my nails before going to sleep. Free time was scarce these days, and I always had to make the most of what little I did have.

Then, out of nowhere, my lovely friend procured a set of keys, which she dangled in front of me victoriously. "Ta-da!"

My eyes widened. "Where in hell did you get those?"

"I told you the security guy is nice. He let me make some key copies," she replied, batting her lashes innocently.

"Are you insane?" I nearly yelled. "What if someone catches us? These rooms are locked for a reason, don't you think? Maybe we should try another floor."

She waved me off dismissively. "Nonsense."

Not giving me the opportunity to protest any longer, she unlocked the room and quickly darted inside. Muttering a curse under my breath, I followed after her, making sure there was no one around before closing the door behind me.

Victoria threw her bag to the floor with a loud thud, going straight for the idle laptop. A minute later, loud music was blaring through the speakers.

"Jesus Christ, Vic!" I called out, slapping a hand over my forehead in frustration. "Lower the goddamn volume!"

She rolled her eyes at me, but did as I asked. "Geez Louise, woman. Lighten up."

"This whole situation makes me nervous, alright?" I told her, removing my jean jacket and placing it on top of my bag. I pulled out my _pointe_ shoes, taking a seat on a nearby bench. "If we get caught, I'm telling them it's your fault. I'm gonna sing like a canary."

She laughed, sticking her tongue out mockingly. "Can't wait."

"By the way," I said after a minute, standing. "I'm glad you recovered your study binder."

"Yeah, I mean, it was on the floor underneath the back table where I'd left it. I was surprised you couldn't find it."

"Yeah," I mumbled, suddenly very interested in my shoes. I'd conveniently left out the part where overhearing a conversation about my questionable dancing skills had me running for the hills. She didn't need to know I hadn't even made it to the classroom.

"Okay, let's start," Victoria urged, beckoning me to her. "Show me your _fouetté en tournant."_

I did twelve continuous _fouett__é__s _as fast as I could, and then slowed down for the last four before coming to a full stop.

"See, I can't do that," Victoria whined, stretching her arms over her head. "I get so freaking dizzy if I do more than a few spins in a row like you just did."

"I only did sixteen. I'm going to have to do thirty-two for my _Swan Lake_ performance, and I get really dizzy after twenty-five."

"I'm sure, in time, you're going to get the hang of it," she said, giving me an encouraging smile. "That's why you're the principal and not me."

The creak of the door caused both of us to whirl around, startled. To my complete horror, the 'intruder' was none other than Mr. Masen himself. He took us in; his brows deeply furrowed. To say he looked displeased would be an understatement.

"What are you two doing here?" he demanded, his green eyes searching our faces for an answer.

"We're terribly sorry," Victoria spoke, her voice shaky. Oh,_ now_ she was scared. "We just needed a place to rehearse."

He was quiet for a brief moment as he seemed to be weighing something in his mind. Then, his eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Where did you get the key to this room?"

I felt my eyes expand to the size of saucers. We were so busted. I briefly wondered how much trouble we were in, and the endless possibilities had me swallowing hard.

When neither of us answered, he took a step forward, menacingly. "I asked both of you a question, and I expect an answer."

"We didn't," Victoria breathed, looking like she was about to hyperventilate. "I begged the security guard to let us in. It's not his fault. I was being a pest and he eventually relented."

Again, he was quiet. Then, when I thought things couldn't get any worse, he stroked his bottom lip with his thumb before fixing me with his eyes. "Carry on."

"What?" I squeaked, crossing my arms over my chest defensively.

"You heard me, Isabella," he said firmly. "I'm not going to repeat myself."

I nodded, but felt as if the sky had just fallen on top of me. How was I supposed to carry on with him watching my every move like a predator?

"I was just... I was showing Victoria my _fouetté en tournant,_" I explained, vaguely gesturing to the air around me.

"Yes, you're good at that," he murmured, running a hand through his hair. The condition of his auburn hair looked precarious. If I had to take a guess, I'd say he'd been molesting it the entire day. "I want you to do a _fouett__é __arabesque_."

Beside me, Victoria took a few steps to the side. "I'm going to get some water," she mumbled, turning around and practically sprinting to her bag.

_Traitor!_

"Okay," I replied apprehensively. He knew. He knew _precisely_ which moves I excelled at and which I didn't. What was he even trying to prove by making me do a step I didn't exactly master?

Taking a deep breath, I took a large step ahead before dashing forward and doing the jump he'd requested. I didn't even get the chance to land on my feet and he was yelling at me.

"That is not _fouett__é __arabesque,_ Isabella!" he scolded, his angry expression matching his voice. "I trusted you with this part. Don't make me look like an idiot for giving you the chance to stand out. Try again."

I did, again and again, each time worse than the previous one. I couldn't concentrate when he was yelling at me, even if my career depended on it; which it did in this case. After my fifth try, I placed my hands on my hips and looked down at my feet, shaking my head in defeat. I couldn't do it. Not when he was being so ruthless and unforgiving. Not when he was scrutinizing my every move. I needed his advice, not his callous critique.

When I finally looked up, I saw he was watching me attentively.

He must've read the acceptance of failure written all over my face because he sighed, making a summoning gesture. "Come here."

I walked over to him with obedient trepidation. When I was close enough, he reached out and grabbed my wrist, swiftly pulling my back to his front. I gasped, not having expected it. His chest was literally glued to my back. In fact, I was so close I could smell tobacco mixed with the scent of his cologne.

"There's nothing that infuriates me more than slackers," he hissed in my ear angrily.

I inhaled sharply, suddenly very uncomfortable with being so close to him. He was mad, and I wanted to get away. Unfortunately for me, he was having none of that.

"Lean forward," he commanded, placing one hand on my waist and the other on my shoulder. I executed immediately, trying and failing miserably at ignoring the feel of his hands on my body. "A bit more." When he was satisfied with my inclined position, his hand that was on my shoulder trailed down to my hip. He tapped the exterior of my left thigh twice. "Now lift your leg as high as you can."

All of a sudden, it got incredibly hot in the room as I felt heat crawl into my cheeks. Or maybe it was just me. Having him touch me like that did absolutely nothing to help my already unfocused state of mind. _Damn it_.

"Good," he stated, much softer. "This is how you're supposed to be landing, okay?"

I nodded, keeping my eyes straight ahead. I began counting backwards from ten to distract myself. When I reached four, he let go of me, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

He cleared his throat, taking a few steps back. "Now, try again."

Not surprisingly, this time my _fouett__é __arabesque_ was perfect. As I landed, my face split into a wide smile. Curious of his reaction and more than a little proud of myself, I searched his face for approval.

He nodded, but didn't smile back. "There you go."

"Thank you," I said softly, reaching up to shove a loose strand of hair back into the headband from where it had escaped.

How on earth had it eluded me just how intense the green in his eyes was? Really, the man was too handsome for his own good. I wondered whether he was currently dating someone. Surely a good-looking man like him had women fawning over him at every step. There _had_ to be someone in his life... a girlfriend... a fiancée... a stalker ex-wife... a fuck buddy, maybe?

_Why did I even care?_

He broke my persistent gaze to check his watch. He then looked at Victoria who sat on the bench, quietly watching the interaction between us. "How's your ankle?"

Her eyes widened, no doubt caught by surprise that he actually cared enough to ask. "Much better, Mr. Masen. Uh, _pointe_ work is still giving me a bit of a headache, though."

"Don't forget to ice it every night before you go to bed. And stretch. Always stretch as much as you can."

She nodded diligently. "Yes, Mr. Masen. I was doing just that when you came in."

"I'll leave you to it then," he uttered, already starting for the door as his eyes avoided further contact with mine. "Don't forget to lock up. You two have a good night."

Victoria and I stared at his hurried, departing form with inquisitive eyes.

"What the hell was that?" she demanded as soon as the door closed behind him.

I shrugged, my gaze still fixed on the closed door. "I have no idea."

_But I'd sure as hell like to know._

* * *

**A/N Thank you for reading! ********For teasers, check out the FB group; link is on my profile. **As for the glossary, I'll try not to repeat terms I've explained in previous chapters.

* * *

**Glossary:**

**En pointe** (on tiptoes): in ballet, dancing that is performed on the tips of the toes.

**Fouetté **(whipped) **en tournant **(turning):an action where the dancer stands momentarily on flat foot with the supporting knee bent as the other "working" leg is whipped around to the side, creating the impetus to spin one turn. The working leg is then pulled in to touch the supporting knee as the dancer rises up en pointe on the supporting foot. The ability to consecutively perform 32 of these turns is considered a bravura step by the ballerina, emphasizing her strength, stamina, and technique. It is a very difficult step to do and many ballerinas can only do 32 on one side, normally the right.

**Fouetté arabesque: **a jump that changes direction mid-air into arabesque.

Source: mostly Wikipedia :)


	5. Dégagé

**A/N Mid Night-Cougar is a darling for having this back to me so quickly! xoxo**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

_**Chapter 5**_

_"What's so wonderful about ballet is that it's mind-driven physicality. It's almost a Greek ideal of body, mind, and form." (Edward Villella )_

_**~ B ~**_

* * *

I was stirred from my sleep by the sound of my bedroom door clicking closed. With a sigh, I turned on my side, burying my face into my pillow. Moments later, my mother's soft voice broke through my barely regained consciousness as her fingers stroked my hair.

"Bella, hon, you need to get up. It's almost eight."

It took a minute for her words to register. When they did, I sat up abruptly, my vision blurred from the sudden movement.

"What?" I gasped, immediately searching for the alarm clock, which I'd apparently forgot to set. The red digital numbers glaring back at me sent a jolt of dread through my lethargic body. "Mom! I have to be in rehearsal in like... thirty-five minutes!"

Mom pursed her lips at me with disapproval. "I'm sorry you overslept, but it's not my fault."

I groaned, starting to get up. "I know, I know. I'm sorry. It's just that if I don't get there in time, Yovenko is going to have my ass."

She shook her head at my choice of words. "Your father can take you. He's downstairs with Seth."

"Yeah, okay," I mumbled, heading straight for the closet and starting to rummage for clothes. "Are you off to work?"

"Yes," she replied, already at the door. "Have a good day today."

"You too," I called, grabbing a random purple dress and my ballet attire, hastily making my way into the adjoining bathroom.

Ten minutes later, as I descended into the kitchen, I found both Seth and my father sitting across from each other at the kitchen island. My brother had his head down as he scrolled through his phone, while Dad held that morning's paper in front of him. At the sound of my approaching footsteps, my father looked up, his dark brown eyes meeting mine.

"Look who's finally decided to get up." He smiled, putting down his paper. "Morning, sleepyhead."

"Hi, Dad," I murmured, grabbing his cup of coffee and gulping down almost half of its content. It was awful; black and bitter and strong as hell, but I needed it. I was still sleepy and tired, and as if that wasn't enough, my entire body was aching.

Dad chuckled, his hand reaching for my wrist as he gently pulled me to him. "Come give your old man a kiss."

Reluctantly, I placed a small peck on his left cheek. He smelled familiar, of expensive cologne, coffee, and something else that was purely _Dad_. I'd missed him, even though these days I found it increasingly hard to admit it.

"I'm late for rehearsal." I pulled back and set his cup down. "Can you give me a ride?"

"Of course," he answered immediately, getting up. He grabbed his blazer from the back of his chair, slipping it on. "Seth, I'll see you later, buddy."

"Yeah, bye," Seth replied, not even bothering to tear his eyes away from his phone.

As we got into Dad's Mercedes and he put the car in reverse, I pulled out my make-up bag, starting to apply a thin layer of waterproof mascara. Examining myself in the visor mirror, I realized I looked like I'd just been hit by a truck. My hair was frumpy, I had bags under my eyes, and part of my pillow was still imprinted on the right side of my face. _Perfect_.

"So, how do you like your new ballet job?" Dad asked, trying to make light conversation.

"It's okay," I answered vaguely, pressing the pad of my forefinger into the cover up I'd just applied under my eyes and gently massaging it in.

"Your mom said you got promoted to principal. Congrats." He sounded enthusiastic. "I'm very proud of you."

"Thanks." My voice sounded even flatter and more dismissive than I'd intended.

Dad sighed, his good mood slowly evaporating. "You're being monosyllabic today, which means you're mad at me. What did I do this time?"

"Nothing." I tightened the cap on my mascara, placing it back into the cosmetic bag, along with the cover up. I didn't feel like discussing the reason for my aloof attitude; he knew it all too damn well.

As if guessing my train of thought, my father went on anyway. "Her name is Leah, and I really, _really_ like her. She makes me happy."

I shrugged, deciding to stare out my window instead of looking at him. "Good for you."

My father, former politician turned actor slash socialite, was not only loaded, but also very handsome and refined; it was a given women would flock around him like starving harpies.

I, for one, had absolutely nothing against him finding happiness again. What bothered me was the way he paraded his personal life for the entire world to see. I couldn't understand the reasoning behind it, and I wasn't even going to try.

"You're never going to forgive me for divorcing your mother, are you?" Dad asked quietly after a moment of silence.

"I don't care what the two of you choose to do with your personal lives," I replied in kind, although not completely honest.

He let out a bitter chuckle. "Of course you don't."

As he pulled the car in front of the studio building, I grabbed my training bag and rushed out, desperate to get away from an already uncomfortable conversation.

"Bells..." His voice trailed after me.

"I need to go, Dad; I'm late," I said, avoiding his eyes. "Thanks for the ride."

Once the passenger door was firmly closed, I turned around and started jogging my way inside. Yovenko's cave was on the sixth floor, and I headed towards the elevators, furiously hitting the down button as I nervously shifted my weight from one leg to the other.

When I finally reached the studio, I practically burst through the door, only to find myself face to face with Mr. Masen. He looked as imposing as ever, even from his seated position.

"Uh…" I stammered, freezing on spot. Yovenko was nowhere in sight. I was confused and freaked out at the same time.

Mr. Masen's eyes pierced through mine like knives. "What time were you supposed to be here, Isabella?" he inquired; his voice eerily quiet.

"Eight thirty," I breathed, feeling my cheeks flame. I was in so much trouble. _Shit._

He stroked his bottom lip with his thumb, and I was momentarily distracted. "Exactly. What time is it now, according to _your _watch?"

I stole a quick glance at my wristwatch, and felt my stomach sink. "Five to nine," I answered meekly, my voice withering with each uttered word.

"Five to nine," he repeated, unfolding his six foot plus frame from the chair he was occupying. He walked over to me, and with each step he took, I could literally feel myself shrinking. When his feet stopped, it was mere inches away from where mine rested on the wooden floor. "Are you taking this job seriously?"

He was livid.

"Oo-f course I am. I just... I overslept," I stuttered, feeling my whole body burn with embarrassment. "I'm sorry, sir; it won't happen again."

"You can bet your non-existent career it won't," he hissed; green eyes blazing. He was furious, and I absolutely hated when his ill disposition was aimed at me. The man had a quick temper, and I wanted nothing to do with it.

Unfortunately for me, there was no getting away, so I nodded, obediently, and whispered a "yes, sir." After a moment, my curiosity got the best of me. I steeled myself before looking him straight in the eye with as much courage as I could muster. "I was supposed to meet with Mr. Yovenko for some choreography changes."

At this, his jaw tensed. "Am I not good enough for you?" he spat, towering over me. "Maks couldn't be here today. If that's going to be a problem with you, the door is still open because you didn't bother to close it." He jerked his head in that direction. "In or out?"

"In," I replied quickly. _Definitely in._

My answer seemed to appease him somewhat. He pulled back a step, crossing his arms in front of him. "We're not going to discuss any choreography changes; that's up to Maks. For now, at least. But since we're both here, I'd like to talk to you about some of your weaknesses."

"Okay," I agreed, my gaze alternating between his face and his broad chest covered in soft, navy cotton. I couldn't help but notice how nicely the dark shirt he was wearing contrasted with the natural paleness of his skin.

He cleared his throat, gesturing to one of the nearby benches. "Come, have a seat."

I did as I was told, hoping his bad mood would go away soon. Mr. Masen sat beside me, and I lowered my bag to the floor, angling my body so I was facing him. Linking my fingers in my lap, I waited.

"The opportunity that has been given to you comes with a price, and you know that," he began, resting his forearms on top of his thighs and clasping his hands in front of him. His shirt molded perfectly against his back, causing every single ripple of muscle to pop out.

"I do." I nodded, and once again was assaulted by the smell of his cologne combined with that of cigarettes. This man unnerved me in the worst ways possible, but at the same time, his presence was oddly soothing; like a rich, emollient cream applied on a severe burn. As intimidating as he was, I wanted to get to know him better. I wanted to know the person behind the director with the reputation of a tyrant.

"You'll have to spend more hours in here practicing and improving yourself, so when the time comes, you get to prove to everyone you were the right choice for this part," he went on, both his stance and his tone of voice increasingly calmer. He was slipping back into that composed frame of mind that made him so much more likable.

My brow furrowed. "Can I ask a question?"

"You just did," he replied, a hint of a smile flitting across his face.

I let out a nervous chuckle. I honestly had no idea how to act or react around him. "Another one."

"Go on." He motioned with his hand I should continue.

"Why me? Why did you pick me over the other, more experienced principals?"

_There. I'd said it. I'd finally asked the burning question._

I'd wanted to know the answer to that question ever since receiving the part. The self-doubt was just awful, and the treatment I got from some of the other dancers was really starting to mess with the way I perceived myself as a dancer. I needed some kind of reassurance.

Mr. Masen sighed. He looked at me then, his intense gaze holding mine for a few seconds before he spoke. "Because, at first, no one believed in Anna Pavlova's talent either, and she ended up being the greatest ballerina that has ever lived. Her _'Dying Swan' _fundamentally revolutionized the old, imperial ballet. There were others more technically advanced than her, but she had so much passion and grace, it was hard for anyone not to take notice of her. She was like a breath of fresh air, and I think you have that quality as well."

"Thank you," I spoke softly, not having expected that particular answer. Knowing he believed in my talent to such degree was not only reassuring and flattering but also quite empowering.

"I trust you won't disappoint my expectations of you."

I shook my head, failing to hide the wide smile that was starting to spread on my face. "I will try my best not to, sir."

"Good." He stood, shoving his hands into his pants pockets as he put some distance between us. "I may come off as a bit harsh at times, but that's because I expect the very best from our dancers. I have nothing against you, so don't take it personal. In fact, I would like for you to be more confident. You have what it takes to become an international success; you simply have to want it bad enough."

I watched him casually stroll the room's perimeter, his eyes now focusing on anything else but me.

"I appreciate your words of encouragement and your involvement in my career's success," I said sincerely, wishing he'd come back to the bench. For some strange reason, I craved his proximity.

He gave me a tight smile, his attention shifting towards the idle laptop. He faced away from me, starting to press some buttons until soft piano music came flowing through the speakers. "Your dancing is technically strong, excelling in both _adagio_ and _allegro_, which is very unusual in dancers. You're a very flexible dancer and your moves are extremely fluid, but you don't have great height to your jumps, so today we're going to work on that."

"Yes, sir," I said simply, taking that as my cue. Standing, I removed my jean jacket and tossed it on the bench, before grabbing the hem of my dress and starting to pull it over my head.

At that very moment, Mr. Masen decided to turn around. As soon as they found me, his eyes could have rivaled those of the wolf from _Little Red Riding Hood._

_"Goodness, what big eyes you have, Mr. Masen!"_

"I'm sorry," I apologized, letting the dress fall to the floor. "I didn't have time to change."

I was already wearing a black leotard and matching tights, so my attire was under no circumstances inappropriate, but he seemed to think I'd stepped over some sort of invisible line, judging by the way he was glaring at me. If I'd been embarrassed before, now I was mortified.

"Yeah," he mumbled, averting his gaze. "Go on and put your skirt and _pointe_ shoes on."

_**~ B ~**_

Later, as I exited Yovenko's cave with Mr. Masen in tow, I ran into Laurent.

"Hey, you." He gave me a blinding smile, which quickly subsided when he realized who was behind me.

"Hi," I said quietly, returning his smile.

I was exhausted. Never would I have imagined a couple hours of training with _Mr. Demanding_ himself were going to tire me so much. I felt like I could sleep for days and still wouldn't be able to get the rest I needed after such an intense session.

The weird thing? This time around, I'd actually enjoyed working with him. While Yovenko was an excellent choreographer, Mr. Masen was a master of technique. He'd given me invaluable advice that I planned on taking to heart, because I knew precisely how lucky I was to be able to work so closely with him. I had no idea what his plans for me were, but I certainly hoped he was going to continue mentoring me, at least for a little while longer.

Laurent acknowledged Mr. Masen with a curt nod. "Mr. Masen, sir."

"Laurent," Mr. Masen greeted back impassively.

Laurent's inquisitive gaze darted between him and me a few times. He looked like he wanted to say something but didn't dare. Some very uncomfortable seconds passed, and Mr. Masen remained standing behind me.

Finally, Laurent cleared his throat before addressing me. "You look hungry. How about we grab some lunch together?"

"Uh, sure," I replied, turning my head so I could look up at Mr. Masen, who was fixing my poor friend with cold eyes.

_What was he doing still standing there?_

Realizing my attention was now aimed at him, he looked at me. Gone was the _Mentor_; that positive, committed person I liked so much. His place had been taken by the _Director_; harsh and unforgiving, and worst of all... detached.

"Bon appétit, Miss Swan," he said flatly, starting to walk away.

"Thank you," I mumbled, feeling as if an enormous weight had suddenly found refuge onto my heart. He was mad, and I couldn't understand what on earth had I done to incite such reaction from him.

Laurent grabbed hold of my hand, pulling me towards the elevators. "What were you doing with _him_ in Yovenko's studio?"

"He helped me with some of the moves for my part," I explained, reining in the urge to look over my shoulder at Mr. Masen's rapidly departing form. "You know, since I suck at anything that involves jumping."

"No you don't." Laurent gave me a look like he thought I was crazy. Then, his eyes narrowed suspiciously. "He's taken quite an interest in you, hasn't he?"

I shrugged, trying to ignore the intense way he was staring at me, as if by doing that he was going to uncover some great secret. "He's just trying to make sure I don't screw up and make the company look bad."

He chuckled, guiding me into the awaiting elevator. "You're so fucking naïve, you know that, Bella?"

I gaped at him. _What the hell?_

* * *

**A/N Thank you for reading, and sorry this chapter took me so long to write!**

**~ Andreea ~**


	6. Bras Croisé

_**A/N Enjoy!**_

* * *

_**Chapter 6**_

_"Put a man and a girl on stage and there is already a story; a man and two girls, there's already a plot." (George Balanchine)_

_**~ B ~**_

* * *

"Ugh... my feet are killing me, and my calf muscles are so sore," Victoria complained, massaging said calves.

We sat on the steps leading to the studio building's back courtyard, where part of the cafeteria was situated. People flitted past us, some of them going in, others rushing out. I pushed my sunglasses on top of my head, raising my face to bask in the mild September sun.

"Tell me about it," I murmured, letting out a soft sigh. "I need to stock up on vitamin D. The bottle I always carry with me is almost empty."

"Yeah," she agreed, leaning back onto her elbows, imitating my posture.

Moments later, a large arm wrapped around my shoulders as Laurent plopped down beside me. "Ladies." He smiled down at me, giving my left arm a gentle squeeze.

I smiled back. "Hi, Laurent."

"Hello, pretty," he replied, pushing a warm paper cup into my hand. "I got you coffee."

"Oh, bless you." I took an eager sip and moaned appreciatively. "This is perfect."

He grinned. "I know how you like it."

Beside me, Victoria groaned, rolling her eyes at us. "You two make me sick. Just ask her out already."

"Victoria!" I gasped, mortified. Laurent was a good friend, but I wasn't interested in him being more than that. I was here to concentrate on my career, not my personal life.

She gave me a pointed look. "What? It's obvious he's nuts about you."

"Don't you have someone else to pester?" Laurent replied, unfazed, placing a light kiss on my temple, just to spite her.

She shrugged nonchalantly. "Nope."

"I thought so," he muttered, giving me a conspiratorial wink.

I chuckled, entertained by their banter, and took another sip from my coffee. I had group rehearsal in about half an hour, but until then I didn't plan on getting my ass up from the comfortable piece of cement it was occupying.

"Skank alert," Victoria sneered; her eyes fixed on a nearby table where Rosalie and a fellow principal had just sat down for lunch.

Rosalie had her platinum blond hair pinned up in a loose bun, and was wearing a flowy yellow dress, paired with black leggings. Despite my strong dislike of her, I had to admit she looked good. No wonder she garnered attention wherever she went.

I didn't have time to respond to Victoria's remark before Mrs. Cope, our ballet mistress, approached me with hurried steps.

"Isabella, dear," she said in her usual, light tone of voice.

I sat up, adopting a more respectful position. "Yes, Mrs. Cope?"

"They're waiting for you in Mr. Masen's office."

"Uh-oh," Victoria said teasingly, throwing me a sideway glance.

"Who're they?" I asked with trepidation. Being called into the director's office, when there was more than one person involved, wasn't necessarily a good thing.

"You'll see," Mrs. Cope replied with a mysterious smile, urging me to start moving.

"I'll see you guys later," I said to Victoria and Laurent, getting up from the stairs and grabbing my brown leather bag.

"Off you go, dear." Mrs. Cope shooed me off, spinning on her heels and heading in the opposite direction.

As I made my way towards Mr. Masen's office, I tried to think of possible reasons he wanted to see me. The only things I could come up with were that he either wanted to make alterations to the play, or he had something to complain about. The latter sent a shiver of fear down my spine. Angry Mr. Masen was not a pretty sight; I knew that firsthand.

_Honestly, what could I have done this time?_

When I finally reached the dreaded door, I knocked twice before it swung open, revealing a blasé-looking Yovenko.

"Ah, Isabella, come in." He stepped aside, motioning with his head towards an empty chair in front of Mr. Masen's desk. "Have a seat."

Mr. Masen was leaning back into his chair, his fingers tented in front of him. Seeing he looked serenely calm, I immediately felt a sense of relief wash over me. Whatever was going on, had nothing to do with something I'd done. For now, I seemed to be in the clear.

"Hello," I greeted as I sat opposite Mr. Masen, noticing there were two other people in the room. One, standing near the windows was Alice Brandon. The other, a massive guy with short, dark hair, was sitting in the chair next to mine.

"Isabella, I want you to meet Emmett McCarty, your partner," Mr. Masen spoke smoothly, waving a hand in his direction. "As you already know, he's been on a tour with _La Scala _for the past few months, and now he's back to perform alongside you in _Swan Lake_."

_Oh._

"It's nice to meet you," I said, examining Emmett with genuine interest. I already knew him by his name and professional reputation, but judging by his boyish expression and sparkly eyes, I was willing to bet he was a pretty decent person, too. There was something about him that immediately put me at ease. I had to admit it was a very nice feeling.

"Likewise." He gave me a dimpled smile, taking hold of my hand and kissing its back. "It's going to be a pleasure working with you, Isabella."

I blushed, causing Alice Brandon to let out a soft laugh. "Emmett is quite the flirt. You're going to have to get used to it."

"Ah, look at that," Emmett said, watching my flaming face with amusement. "Isn't she just lovely?"

"Ms. Brandon here is going to take both your measurements, so she can start working on the costumes," Mr. Masen cut in curtly, effectively ending the playful conversation.

"Call me Alice," she said to me with a warm smile, not seeming to pay any attention to Mr. Masen's cold demeanor.

Yovenko sighed impatiently. "When you're done here, I'm going to need both of you in the studio," he addressed Emmett and me. "There are some additions I want both of you to know about as soon as possible." He paused to throw a knowing smirk my partner's way. "Besides, Emmett and I need to get reacquainted with each other. It looks like the Italians took it easy on him."

He exited the room followed by Emmett's booming laugh.

_**~ B ~**_

"And... 1, 2, 3... connecting the legs, Isabella...

... 4, 5, 6... _gliss__é_...

... 7, 8, 9... _chass__é__; big assembl__é_ forward...

... careful Emmett; hold her waist...

... all the way up, Isabella; up, up!

... hold supporting side and _pli__é_."

It'd been like this for the past hour and a half. Yovenko was relentless, pushing both me and Emmett to our limits. A few more minutes like this, and I was bound to push our darling choreographer out the open window.

_Getting reacquainted my ass._

The relationship between him and Emmett seemed quite friendly, as they kept teasing and throwing biting remarks at each other throughout the entire choreography session.

"Alright, you two, take five," Yovenko finally said, muting the music.

I stopped moving, placing my hands akimbo as I raised my face to the ceiling and inhaled a few greedy breaths. "I'm going to step outside for some water," I murmured after a moment, turning around to exit the room.

"I'll go with you," Emmett announced, breaking into a slow jog to catch up to me. Once into the surprisingly uncongested hallway, he smiled down at me. "You're really good."

"Thanks." I smiled back. "You are, too. Obviously."

Emmett McCarty was a pretty big name in the ballet world. Getting to work with him was either pure luck, or, more than likely, due to Mr. Masen's sly schemes. I could almost envision the posters advertising the play: _"The illustrious Emmett McCarty and his novice, doe-eyed partner, Isabella Swan." _People were going to go nuts about the pairing of a seasoned, well-known, and much loved dancer with a nineteen-year-old who'd never set foot on a real stage.

"No, really," he insisted. "You really _do_ have potential."

"Did someone _else_ say that?" I asked curiously as we reached the water dispenser.

He chuckled, grabbing a plastic cup. After filling it, he offered it to me. "_Everyone _says that."

I took it, grateful, and started drinking, having no idea how to respond to that. I was pretty sure not everyone in the company thought that highly of me. In fact, in just a few weeks, I had made enough enemies to last me a lifetime.

As I filled my cup a second time and Emmett drained his, we were joined by Rosalie.

"Emmett, hi," she greeted, completely ignoring my presence as she gave him a sweet smile.

His eyebrows rose in surprise. He looked taken aback by her presence. "Oh, hey, Rosie."

_Rosie?_

She cocked her head to the side, a little pleased by his being there, and more than a little intrigued. "I didn't know you were back."

"Yeah." He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. If I hadn't known better, I would have said he almost looked nervous. "I landed yesterday."

"Is that so?" She bit onto her lower lip as her blue eyes raked over his tall form. "Did you talk to Maks? What does the company have in store for you this year?"

"Actually, I'm playing Prince Siegfried in _Swan Lake._"

"Oh." She breathed, and for the first time since arriving, she fixed me with her icy stare. Dare I say she looked murderous?

It made me wonder what the hell was going on between the two of them. Clearly, they had some sort of history together.

"Yeah," Emmett mumbled, nodding his head.

She forced a tight smile. "Good for you."

"I'm going back inside," he said hurriedly, starting to walk away. "See you around, Rose."

When there was only the two of us left, Rosalie puffed out an irritated snort. "Oh, for Christ's sake, wipe that innocent nun expression off your face," she mocked, leaning closer. "Don't you fucking dare hit on him or I'll make you regret it." She shoved a threatening finger into my face. "Do I make myself clear? Are you picking up what I'm putting down?"

I pulled back fractionally, surprised by her sudden outburst. She looked mad as hell. Instead of answering, I simply turned on my heels, heading back into Yovenko's chamber of torture.

Rosalie could bite me, but I could also bite back, if need be. I had no clue as to what their deal was, but I had no intention of hitting on Emmett, whatsoever. I didn't know much about Rosalie; whether her threats were to be taken too seriously, but I didn't make a habit out of fucking the people I worked with, anyway, so it was a moot point.

A minute later, as I stepped into the room, and my eyes landed on Emmett, it didn't slide by me that he didn't look so chipper anymore.

_**~ B ~**_

A couple days later, I was in general rehearsal when an acute jolt of pain shot through my right side. Bending at the waist and closing my eyes, I became vaguely aware of Emmett's voice asking if I was okay. I nodded, but found it increasingly hard to focus on anything else besides the intense pain that was rapidly starting to spread through my entire middle section.

I'd been dizzy for the past half an hour, but this was taking it to a whole new level. Suddenly, I felt the urge to throw up. Bracing myself against the closest wall, I let out a soft whimper.

"Bella, what the hell is going on?" Emmett demanded, placing an arm around my waist for support. He sounded concerned. "You're as white as a ghost. Are you sure you're alright?"

I shook my head. "No, not really," I managed to whisper out. "Please, get me out of here."

Mrs. Cope rushed her way over to us as the music came to an abrupt stop. "Isabella dear, what is it?"

"I need... to go to... the infirmary," I said brokenly; my voice barely a whisper.

"But, of course," she practically yelled, panicked. "Emmett, go with her, and don't leave her out of your sight until she's better."

"Come on," he said, leading me towards the door, as the two dozen bodies in the room parted like the Red Sea to let us through. "It's that time of the month, huh?" he asked quietly, once we stepped into the hallway.

I looked up at him in surprise through watery eyes. "Uh... yeah."

He gave me a sympathetic look. "Your calcium level must be crazy low to give you such pain."

"Do I even want to know how you acquired such knowledge?" I breathed out. If I wasn't feeling as though Jack the Ripper himself resided in my womb, I would have laughed at the way his face morphed into a flustered expression.

"No, you actually don't," he replied quickly, letting out a soft chuckle.

Twenty minutes and an IV drip later, I lay on a bed in the on-site infirmary, listening to some cranky nurse lecture me about anemia, blood clots, excess blood loss, and whatnot. Emmett looked extremely uncomfortable as he sat on a chair, toying with the hem of his t-shirt.

The door was wide open, so when Mr. Masen's lean figure crossed the hallway and his eyes landed on me, I wanted to pull the sheets over my head and die.

"What's going on?" he asked, stepping inside and glancing between the three of us.

The nurse, whatever her name was, pursed her lips at me. "Miss Swan here has a bit of a calcium deficiency, among _other_ things." She gave me a pointed look, and I wanted to hit her for running her big mouth at the worst possible moment. "She's going to be fine after a bit of sleep and some lunch."

Mr. Masen's sharp gaze met mine. "I want you to take the rest of the day off."

"That won't be necessary," I said quickly, shaking my head.

"It wasn't a request nor was it a suggestion." His voice was firm. "Is there someone who can pick you up?"

"I don't think–" I started to say, but he cut me off abruptly.

"Emmett will take you."

Emmett sighed. "I would, gladly, but you know I have that press conference to announce my part in _Swan Lake_ in an hour."

"Yes, you're right." Mr. Masen's brow furrowed as he checked his watch before meeting my eyes again. "I'll take you."

"Mr. Masen, you really don't have to–"

Again, he didn't let me finish my sentence. "I'll be back in half an hour," he said with finality, summoning Emmett with a curt nod of his head. "Emmett, come with me."

"I'll see you tomorrow, Bella." Emmett gave me a playful wink as he followed Mr. Masen out of the room and down the narrow hallway.

When both of them were out of sight, I puffed out a heavy breath. "Jesus."

"Try to get some sleep," the nurse advised, leaving the infirmary and firmly closing the door behind her.

Left alone to my own thoughts, I tried to imagine how I was going to survive being in the same car as Mr. Masen and not hyperventilate to death. The man was a force of nature. A single look from him, and I was prone to saying something really stupid that I was never going to be able to take back.

As promised, half an hour later, Mr. Masen was back with a steamy cup of tea and my training bag. "How are you feeling?" he inquired; his voice much more gentle than before.

I gave him a sincere smile, accepting the warm drink from him. "Much better, sir. Thank you."

He nodded, glancing around the room. "I grabbed your bag but couldn't find a jacket. Did you bring one?"

"Uh, no. I only brought a light cardigan with me. It wasn't that cold when I left the house this morning."

He looked displeased as he put my bag down and shrugged off his leather jacket. "It's started raining outside. Here, put this on."

"I... sir, you really don't have to," I insisted, blushing. "I'm fine."

He let out an aggravated sigh, tossing the jacket on the bed beside me. "I won't say it again."

I seemed to have found my special talent: irritate the hell out of Mr. Masen. Seriously, the man's temper was alarmingly short. Keeping my mouth shut this time, I slid out of bed and did as I was told.

As we passed several dancers on our way to Mr. Masen's car, they gave us curious stares, some more blatantly than others. Once in the car, Mr. Masen rolled down his window as he lit a cigarette. He took a deep drag before starting the engine, then pulled out into the slow afternoon traffic, as I gave him directions to my house.

"Are you eating enough?" he asked, not looking my way.

"Yeah," I murmured, watching his profile with rapt fascination. The scent emanating from his jacket assaulted my nose and I inhaled as deeply as I could without drawing his attention.

However, my dishonest reply earned me a sharp look. "Don't lie to me. I can't stand it."

"I've been having some issues," I admitted, glancing away. "But I'm better now."

He snorted unceremoniously. "Starving yourself will only make you weak and therefore unable to perform to your full potential."

"I know that," I whispered, watching the random faces on the sidewalk.

Stopping at a red light, Mr. Masen took hold of my chin, turning my head so I was looking at him –directly into his ardent eyes. "Don't make me question you again about your lack of proper nutrition." His gaze burned through mine, starting a devastating fire inside of me. "Your health is not something to toy with, Isabella. I mean it."

"Yes, sir," I breathed, his proximity and his touch making my head spin. I both hated and loved how much he affected me.

The more time I got to spend with him, the more I realized I was starting to like him. A lot. Even when he was being grumpy and quick-tempered. Those walls he kept up to barricade his gentle, caring side were starting to lose height. It made me wonder: what would it take to get a full view of the other side; climb them or shatter them brick by brick?

Letting go of me, he put the car in motion again. Sometime later, we were pulling in front of Mom's exquisite rose bushes that she'd imported all the way from Italy.

"Is this your house?" he asked, observing it with frank interest.

"Yes. Well, it's my mom's house. I plan on moving out soon," I explained, grabbing my training bag from the backseat. "Thank you for the ride."

"You're welcome, Isabella," he said, unlocking the doors. "Get some rest."

"I will." I stepped out into the light rain, turning around to offer him a warm smile. "See you tomorrow, sir."

He didn't respond; instead, he looked up at me, and what I saw in his eyes halted my retreat. "Isabella, please take care of yourself. I need you... to be at the top of your game," he told me so intensely it made me shiver.

I nodded, spellbound, as he exhaled a long breath, then turned his head away and sat back in his seat.

Closing the passenger door, I quickly made my way inside the house. To my complete horror, Seth was standing near the window, his face split into a mischievous grin.

"Who was that?" He wanted to know.

"No one," I replied hastily. "He's... no one."

Seth laughed. "Judging by your wide eyes and the blush you're sporting, I wouldn't say he's 'no one'. I'd say he's _someone._"

"Mind your own business, smartass," I said acidly, rushing my way past him and up the stairs.

As I plopped down on my bed, my head still spinning, I realized I was still wearing Mr. Masen's leather jacket.

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**A/N I love reading your reviews! Let me know what you think!**

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**Glossary:**

**Assemblé** (to assemble): a movement where the first foot performs a battement glissé/degagé, "swishing" out. The second foot then swishes under the first foot, thereby launching the dancer into a jump. The feet meet together in mid-air and the dancer lands with both feet on the floor at the same time. A jump: plié, brushing working leg out. Bring both legs together ("assemble" them) while in midair; land on both feet. The brush can be to the front, the side, or the back. Sometimes known as a double changement.

**Chassé** (to chase): a slide forwards, backwards, or sideways with both legs bent, then springing into the air with legs meeting and straightened. It can be done either in a gallop (like children pretending to ride a horse) or by pushing the first foot along the floor in a _plié_ to make the springing jump up. This step is generally found in a series, either with several of the same or a combination of movements. Like a glide.

**Glissé** (to glide): this is a traveling step starting in a fifth position demi-plie, in which the working foot moves out to a point, both legs briefly straighten as weight is shifted toward the pointed foot, and the other foot moves in to meet the first. The movement may also be done sur les pointes.

Source: Wikipedia


	7. Entrechat

**A/N Mid Night-Cougar is the best beta anyone could ask for!**

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_**Chapter 7**_

_"A pas de deux is a dialogue of love. How can there be conversation if one partner is dumb?"_ _(Rudolf Nureyev)_

**_~ B ~_**

* * *

"Happy birthday!" Mom and Seth sang in unison as I stepped into the kitchen, early in the morning.

Between the two of them, on the kitchen island, sat a lovely ballet-themed cake and a large purple box wrapped with matching ribbon.

"You guys," I gasped, lowering my training bag to the floor and rushing over to get a better look at the cake. "Awww... this is really sweet. The cake is _spectacular_."

My mother chuckled. "You like it?"

"Of course I do," I replied excitedly. "What's in the box?"

"Open it," Seth urged, placing his arm around my shoulders. He was his usual stylish self, clad in dark jeans and an attractive emerald-green blazer. Sometimes, I envied him for having the courage to express himself through his clothes. He liked to dress well, he was interested in fashion, and he wasn't afraid to show it. To top it all off, the girls were crazy for him.

"Do you want to blow out your candles now or after we come back from dinner?" Mom asked, candle lighter at the ready.

"Hmm... after dinner," I decided, quickly getting my hands on the tempting gift box and opening it with deft fingers.

Inside it lay two pairs of beautifully embellished pointe shoes: one pair was white, adorned with feathers and gleaming crystals—fit for the pure and innocent White Swan; while the other pair was made to resemble its evil sister—dark and sinister, but with an alluring edge to it. They looked amazing, and all I could do was gape at the exquisite craftsmanship.

"What do you think?" Seth wanted to know.

"I think this is the best gift ever," I squealed, whirling around to crush him into a bear hug. "Thank you."

He laughed, delighted, squeezing me back. "You're welcome, sis."

"Happy nineteenth birthday, hon," Mom said, as I let go of Seth and made my way over to her. She wrapped her arms around me tightly, kissing my hair as she held me.

"Thanks, Mom," I murmured, basking in her affection. "I love the gifts."

"I have one more." She pulled back, reaching into her cardigan's pocket and pulling out a small _Cartier _box. "Your father left this for you."

I sighed, accepting the jewelry box and looking inside. A tasteful pink gold bracelet set with three diamonds, each in the middle of a delicate orchid, stared back at me.

"It's nice, but I would have rather he gave it to me in person," I whispered, fingering the clasp, as a surge of disappointment washed over me, knowing my father wasn't going to be present for my birthday.

Mom gave me a sympathetic look. "Well, you know he had that _thing_ in Rome that—apparently—he couldn't miss."

"Yeah," I breathed, taking out the bracelet and latching it onto my left wrist. It was so delicate and looked beautiful against my pale skin.

"On a happier note," Mom said in a chipper tone of voice, toying with the end of my ponytail. "I made reservations to that Lebanese restaurant you love so much."

I smiled, my mood lifting somewhat at the prospect of spending some quality time with my family. "What time?"

"Seven."

"Okay." I nodded, stealing a quick glance at my watch. "I need to get going. Mom, can you please put those in my room?" I motioned towards my newest pairs of pointe shoes. "I'm going to find a special place for them when I come home."

"Sure." My mother smiled. "Have a great day, sweetie. Oh, and do me a favor? Take the car today; it's pouring outside, and you can get home quicker at the end of the day."

"Will do." I started to walk out of the kitchen, grabbing my bag off the floor. Inside it, tucked safely underneath my training attire, sat Mr. Masen's leather jacket—which at some point today had to be returned.

_**~ B ~**_

I was in general rehearsal when the door opened and a man carrying a flower arrangement stepped in, unannounced. Mrs. Cope paused the music, giving the delivery guy a questioning look.

"May I help you?" she asked, as people in the room—myself included—stared curiously.

"I'm looking for a Miss Isabella Swan," the man replied, causing two dozen pairs of eyes to turn on me.

"That's me." I felt the heat rise to my cheeks as I hurried my way over to him, all the while thinking my father couldn't have picked a shittier moment to send me flowers. I hated being in the spotlight; which was weird considering I was now a principal, and the limelight pretty much came with the job description.

"Is there a note?" I inquired quietly, my eyes sweeping over the interesting combination of dark red roses, cymbidium orchid, celosia and gorgeous stock flowers. Usually, my father sent me pink roses, so this was kind of unusual, coming from him.

"Yeah, it's somewhere around... here." The man dug out a little yellow card, handing it over to me.

It simply read: _May you thrive to your full potential. Happy Birthday!_

_Strange, _I thought to myself. It really didn't seem like my father at all. He was usually wordier in his cards, and he signed them every single time. This one didn't even hint at who might have sent the flowers.

"Could you sign this, please?" The delivery guy pushed a clipboard in front of me.

"Sure." I accepted the pen he was offering, rapidly signing my name then taking the flowers from him. "Thank you very much."

"Good day." He nodded, turning around and exiting the room.

"Is there something I should know?" Victoria materialized beside me, causing me to startle.

I gave her a guilty smile. "Uh… it's my birthday?"

"What!" she nearly yelled, her brows furrowing. "Oh, my God, why didn't you say so yesterday? I would have gotten you something."

I rolled my eyes at her. "There's no need for that."

"Well, you suck." She huffed, but then her expression softened. "Happy birthday, you horrid friend."

I laughed, giving her a one-arm hug. "Thanks. I appreciate you wanting to get me something, but I really don't need anything."

"Who are those from?" She waggled her eyebrows suggestively, nodding towards the flower arrangement.

"My father… I think," I said with a shrug. "He always sends me flowers on my birthday. Although, for some strange reason, he didn't sign the card."

"Oh." She looked deflated.

Turning to Mrs. Cope, I motioned towards the vase I was holding. "May I?"

She smiled kindly. "Sure, dear. Take your time."

I left the classroom, intent on heading to my locker to deposit the flowers there for the rest of the day. I made a mental note to call Dad and thank him for his gifts. He might have been out of the country, but he'd showed me he still cared, and that had to count for something.

As I rounded the corner leading to the elevators, my eyes landed on Mr. Masen tipping the delivery guy, and I froze on spot, my heartbeat nearly exploding into my chest. It felt as if a bull had rammed into me at full speed, extorting every single breath of air from my lungs.

_Oh. My. God._

It was him.

Not my dad, but _him_. I could barely believe my treacherous eyes.

Hauling myself backward a bit, I flattened my back against the wall, hidden from sight, and stared at the glass wall across from me, incredulously. Mr. Masen had sent me flowers. He knew of my birthday.

He…

He…

_He what?_

I didn't even know what to think… what to make of it. I highly doubted he treated the rest of the female dancers like this—the attention he paid me seemed unprecedented. He was too cold, too distant to get close to anyone inside the company. And yet, when it came to me, he seemed to belie everything I'd ever heard about him.

_Why? Why me? Why was _I_ so special?_

I couldn't understand his varying behavior, and to be honest, I wasn't even sure I wanted to. There was this part of me that was terrified of what I might find out if I dug too deep into his appreciation of me.

But then again, the other part of me was needy and greedy and wanted to get to know every single facet of Mr. Masen's complex personality. He was such a fascinating man, unlike any other I'd ever met. It was crazy what merely being close to him made me feel.

For the first time since entering the company ranks, I was starting to realize the interest was mutual. Although, while mine was fueled by years of watching him perform on the world's biggest stages, his seemed precipitated by an uncanny desire to see me succeed.

However, I still had to wonder: why the flowers? Why the part in _Swan Lake_? And, most importantly, why his close involvement with my daily training?

Obviously, he was an insanely attractive man, and any red-blooded woman would be flattered by him taking notice of her, but there was no way a man like Edward Masen was looking for something meaningful with a practical teenager. So why the interest?

It was all coming back to me in a new light: the auditions, his persistent stares, how he'd defended me against everyone, the close eye he always kept on me, the way he reacted when Laurent was getting too close…

And now the freaking flowers.

One moment he was ice cold; the other he was burning hot. It was confusing. I'd never had to deal much with men before, but if they were all so bi-polar and intense, I would rather keep my distance.

The bottom line was that there had to be something more than he was letting on. I needed to find out what his deal was, even if it was only for my peace of mind; because frankly, I was starting to freak out big time.

With a shaky breath, I pushed myself away from the wall, rushing in the opposite direction on unstable legs.

Maybe Laurent was right, after all. Maybe I _was_ being naïve.

_**~ B ~**_

"Let's go clubbing," Victoria suggested excitedly, as we made our way to the cafeteria for a well-deserved lunch. I knew I wasn't going to enjoy it, though; my stomach was in knots after my latest revelation. It was as if a veil had been lifted from my eyes.

Mr. Masen was _interested_. In what specifically, I had yet to find out.

Since I was distracted, still thinking about our director's hidden motives, I turned to her with a blank expression. "Huh?" I said, realizing she'd been talking to me.

"I said, let's go clubbing."

I frowned, displeased by the proposal. "No way, Vic."

"Why not?" she whined, tugging on my arm. "Please, please, please?"

"I don't like it."

"Oh, come on, Bella, don't be such a grump; it's your birthday. We should be doing something fun."

I sighed, shaking my head. "I don't really feel like doing something fun. I'd much rather go somewhere I can relax."

"You suck." She stuck out her tongue at me.

I gave her a half-smile. "Yeah, you already said that."

She popped her piece of gum, linking her arm with mine. "Okay, so where do you want to go?"

"Well, my mom and my brother are taking me to my favorite Lebanese restaurant. You should come."

"Yeah, okay," she replied, unenthusiastically. "Are you going to invite Laurent, as well?"

I shrugged. "Sure, I think he'd like to go."

She rolled her eyes dramatically. "Of course he would. To be honest, I'm surprised he hasn't asked you out yet."

"I don't like him that way, Vic." I made sure to give her a pointed look.

She grinned, knowingly. "But _he_ does."

"We're just friends, and we're going to remain that way," I insisted.

"If you say so."

As we walked down the hallway, I saw Mr. Masen approaching from the other direction. He was speaking with Rosalie who, for some reason, looked extremely cheerful. Though, when they reached us, Rosalie's expression changed completely as she threw me a hateful glare. Mr. Masen seemed oblivious to the animosity she aimed at me like a poisonous arrow. His gaze lingered on my face, causing a ripple of nervousness through my entire body.

"Ladies," he greeted quietly; hot, green flames burning through my wide, questioning eyes.

Not having a clue as to what he was thinking was nearly enough to drive me to the brink of insanity.

_For the love of God, why the flowers?_

"Mr. Masen," both Victoria and I murmured in acknowledgement. Unaware I was doing it, I slowed down my pace, earning a confused look from Victoria, who had to do the same.

Behind Mr. Masen and Rosalie, Emmett walked with his phone glued to his ear. When he saw me, he started grinning, ending the call as he approached us.

"I hear it's your birthday today!" he exclaimed as a way of greeting.

"Yeah." I smiled widely, letting out a whoosh of air when he wrapped his arms around my waist and lifted me off the floor.

He gave my cheek a noisy kiss. "Happy birthday, beautiful!"

I chuckled, blushing furiously at the blatant stares people passing by were giving us. I knew him for all of three days, but he seemed to have no problem acting as if we'd known each other our entire lives. I didn't even think he knew what personal space was, in the first place. He was a total goofball, and I liked that about him. Not once had he made me feel uncomfortable in his presence, not even when he was acting all lovey-dovey around me. That was just who Emmett was: a total, shameless but innocent flirt.

"Thanks, Em."

He chuckled back, seeming to enjoy the reaction he'd managed to get out of me. "There's that lovely blush again."

"You have that effect on girls," I said playfully, as he put me down and reached into his pocket to pull out his phone once again.

He winked, starting to walk away. "I'll see you later in rehearsal."

As my eyes followed after him, they stopped on Mr. Masen and Rosalie, both of them halted in the middle of the hallway as they watched our interaction. Rosalie's jaw was set, her icy blue irises fixing me with such venom, I would have been long dead if looks had that kind of power. Beside her, Mr. Masen was fuming silently—eyes narrowed, lips pursed tight together.

Oh right, he was angry. Yet again.

_Jesus. Where was all this coming from?_

Leaning over, he said something to Rosalie. Reluctantly, she tore her eyes away from me, and they turned around, starting to walk again.

Victoria sighed. "I'm hungry. Let's go."

Making a quick decision, I turned to her. "Vic, I need to use the bathroom. You should go find a table, and I'll meet you there in five."

"Sure," she said, none the wiser. "Don't take too long."

Detouring to my locker, I opened it and dug into my training bag until I found Mr. Masen's jacket.

Hoping he'd discarded of Rosalie by then and he was alone in his office, I headed that way. The door was slightly ajar, so I knocked twice before receiving his gruff reply. "Come in."

I stepped inside tentatively, noticing, with some relief, he was indeed alone. "Hello."

He looked surprised by my being there. "Isabella." He rose from his chair, making his way over to me. "Is something the matter?"

"No, no," I replied quickly. "I came to return your jacket, and to thank you for lending it to me."

"You're more than welcome." He took it from me, pausing as he pondered his next words. "How are you feeling?"

"Much better; thank you." I searched his face for something—anything to give me a clue as to what he was thinking.

_What did he want from me?_

He gave away nothing. To my utter frustration, his expression remained void of any emotion, and I realized he wasn't even going to address the fact he'd sent me flowers.

"Are you off to lunch?" he asked instead, again putting distance between us as he walked behind the desk and hung his jacket on the back of his chair.

"Yeah."

"Make sure to have some fruit." He began rearranging something on his desk, not even looking at me, and I wanted to scream at him; to demand what fucking game he was playing.

Gritting my teeth, I turned around, preparing my exit. "Thank you again for everything."

When I reached the door, his voice called out, effectively stopping me in my tracks. "Isabella."

My heart nearly ceased its beating. "Yes, sir?" I whirled around, a little hopeful, and a little scared of what I was about to hear.

He stared at me, not speaking, seeming to fight an inner battle. Then, after what felt like an eternity, but was in reality mere seconds, he sighed in defeat. "Happy birthday," he said softly, reaching up to run a hand through his hair.

I nodded, not even bothering to verbally acknowledge his salutation. I couldn't speak; my emotions were on overload. I left, suddenly eager to put as much distance as I could between us.

_**~ B ~**_

That evening at the restaurant, the atmosphere was blissfully light, and I was glad to be able to disconnect from that day's earlier events.

"So, Laurent, what is it that your parents do?" Mom inquired, smiling at him sweetly as she took a sip from her glass of wine.

"My father's a lawyer and my mom is an English teacher," Laurent replied, oblivious to the reason behind her question.

"Isn't that nice." She gave me a conspicuous look. "How long have you been studying ballet?"

"Since I was eight." He smiled, then forked some food, bringing it to his lips.

Mom cocked her head to the side. "How old are you?"

"I'll be twenty next month," he answered, and I wanted to smack my mother for being so nosy and blatantly trying to hook me up with him.

"So, Victoria, how old are _you_?" Seth cut in, interrupting their conversation. I was grateful for the distraction.

Victoria laughed. "Too old for you, kid."

Seth smirked. "I'm older than my age... mentally."

"Seth," Mom scolded, frowning at him.

Victoria waved her off nonchalantly. "He's just being silly."

"Yeah, Mom." Seth grinned, showing off his perfect teeth and that pair of dimples girls always fell for. "I'm just kidding around."

"Besides, Victoria is engaged," I added, smirking at Seth.

"Oh." Mom smiled with relief. "Who's the lucky guy?"

"He's a childhood friend of mine. We started dating, though, a few years ago, and we're really happy."

"That's lovely."

Conversation continued to flow easily, and at some point during dinner, Dad called to wish me a happy birthday. We spoke on the phone for a few minutes, and when I thanked him for his gift, he promised to come see me as soon as he landed back in New York.

I indulged myself by eating half of what I'd ordered, which was quite an improvement from what I was used to having in the evenings, and it seemed to please my mother to no end. I had enjoyed the food, but deep down I knew my appetite was mostly due to Mr. Masen's request that I ate more.

On the drive home from the restaurant, after dropping off Victoria, Mom was relentless.

"I mean it, Bella. Laurent seems like a very nice young man," she said for the third time that evening.

"Mom," I groaned, rubbing my hands over my face roughly.

"What?" she asked, all innocent-like.

"I know what you're trying to do and it's not going to work. I am not dating my co-workers."

She sighed in exasperation. "You need to start living a little, sweetie. Get a boyfriend, have more fun... enjoy life to the fullest."

"I'm just not interested in anyone at the moment, okay?"

My reply earned me a stifled laugh from Seth, who was sprawled all over the backseat.

"What?" I snapped angrily, turning around in my seat to face him.

"Nothing." He put his hands up defensively, but I could see the mischievous glimmer in his eyes.

The little devil was too perceptive for his own good.

Later, as I stood in the kitchen with my cake in front of me, ready to blow out the candles, I didn't need much time to come up with a wish.

Taking a deep breath and leaning over, I thought to myself, _I wish Mr. Masen would __show me his true self._

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**A/N Thank you for reading!**

**~ Andreea ~**


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